Dove Hearts and Desperation
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: Some Valentine's Day angst featuring John Munch. SVU AU. Another in the Near Misses miniseries, as John accidentally gives Sarah Zelman entirely the wrong impression about his love life. Bittersweet, like fine Dove chocolate.


"Dove Hearts & Desperation"

by Cardinal Robbins

John Munch isn't mine, but 'The Enigma' is. This was written for 'the weekend after Valentine's Day' challenge. It became another in the 'Near Misses' mini-series.

I walked into the local CVS and cringed at aisle after aisle of gaudy red, white and pink, decorated for that infamous Hallmark holiday, "Valentine's Day." It was almost too late to choose a card for my mom, as well as send her a large plastic heart filled with Ferrero Rocher, with a few solid milk chocolate hearts thrown in for good measure.

I grabbed a red plastic basket, determined to shop at my leisure despite the controlled throng of husbands and boyfriends, who struggled at finding the exact sentiment they chose to express. Wandering up the candy aisle – at this point, weren't they all overflowing with milk chocolate affection? – I dropped a bag of Dove hearts into my basket.

My co-workers loved any variety of chocolate, especially Olivia who preferred hers with a peanut butter filling. Reese's hearts. Check. Enough candy to satisfy the sugar-junkies who would stop by my desk? Got that, too…a huge heart with the best assortment you could find, without going to Godiva's.

Next task? A suitable card for Mom. Something meaningful, without being ridiculously sappy, incredibly sarcastic, or saccharine to the point of making her groan. They make a card for virtually anyone in as many types of relationships as can be imagined. Wife, ex-wife, girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, friend (also known as the "Kiss of Death" card), waitress, delivery person, letter carrier, dog walker, goldfish trainer… It was pathetically depressing on a good day, let alone tomorrow. A day of romantically-induced stress, when people would off themselves because they weren't paired up with a warm body.

After fifteen minutes of browsing, I finally settled on a card my mother could laugh about. A slick, silly joke, sure to bring a smile to her face, rather than remind her she didn't have my father's hand to hold on the day reserved for lovers. I knew my brother would take her to tea over the weekend, rather than subject her to silently suffering through dinner somewhere frivolously expensive, as couples celebrated their togetherness.

Not wanting the card crushed by what felt like seven pounds of refined sugar, I held the basket in one hand, her Hallmark greeting in the other. Straying into the next aisle to peruse the stuffed bears, there was a flash of reddish blonde hair as I brushed right past her. The Enigma.

Her basket was considerably less burdened than mine. A surreptitious glance clued me to a card screaming, "Our Friendship is a Treasure," with a tiny box of pastel candy 'conversation hearts.'

Someone wasn't even worth the cost of chocolate, let alone a card proclaiming her love or desire. She continued to read cards, her gaze lingering over one or two as she stood in deep thought. Without warning, her head snapped up and she looked toward me for an instant. Her dark gaze dropped and settled on my bulging basket of manufactured cheer, as well as the card in my hand.

I started to open my mouth to speak, but my mind went blank, leaving me utterly speechless in front of the one woman with whom I wanted to share a kind word. She bit her lower lip for a moment, put down her basket, turned from me and quickly walked away. A wave of despair washed over me in her wake, the expression in her eyes one of painful desperation over a relationship no longer what it seemed. I knew the look; it reflected in my eyes as well, but she had left before realizing as much.

The urge to rush after her was almost all-consuming, but I couldn't. It wouldn't do for a stranger to follow her, and I'd already crossed the line more than once in our game of cat and mouse. A complaint from her could put a serious dent in my career, because police are supposed to know better.

We're expected to have impeccable impulse control, not to give in to curiosity unless it was in the interests of the job. I had to simply let her walk away, to accept the fact she was gone; gone with the presumption there was a lover in my life, a warm, happy heart who felt joy when I walked in the door.

Little did she know, I had no one.

Arriving home with my purchases, I felt no joy looking at them laid out on my kitchen table. The assortment of sugar had a mythic power of its own, having brought a woman whom I didn't know almost to the brink of tears. Was she crying this very moment, sure my affections were being lavished on someone else? Was her melancholy compounded by a relationship on the skids, having faced the bitter truth they were better left as friends? Guilt yanked at me relentlessly while I put everything back into plastic bags, to carry into the precinct tomorrow.

Where would she be? What would she be doing, she of the laptop and Glock, who kept her head down and voice too low to hear? How well would she cope with the chaotic crush of couples, rushing to their liaisons and late dinners? Would she numb herself at the local watering hole, seeking the dregs of attention from those who were also without someone to hold? No, it didn't seem to be her way. I pictured her stronger than all that, able to cope with a momentary lapse of romance. As I would also be forced to do, after a drink at the cop bar with friends who had later plans.

Three days after the orgy of stale chocolate, over-priced roses, garish balloons and insincere sentiments in bright envelopes, I was just as happy to see the clearance sales. This time, I walked past the CVS, thinking idly of her once again and hoping she had survived the day with less heartache than myself.

It was snowy, the compacted white crunching beneath my feet as I walked. Grabba Cuppa's lights were on, hot tea and a newspaper awaited me; it was easy to give in and escape the cold. Saturday. A day off to do as I pleased. I walked in the door, stamped the snow off of my shoes and glanced toward the front window.

She was there, a silhouette against the glass, seated at a table for one as she nursed something in a tall container. Her head down, she was reading the early edition of the Times, appearing oblivious yet acutely aware of who came and went.

I stood in line to buy my beverage, keeping her in my peripheral vision. Unfortunately, there were several open tables, depriving me of any excuse to intrude upon her moment of Zen. She people-watched; her eyes darted curiously from person to person.

As I took a seat and put down my tea, she cast a glance my way. For a moment, our eyes met and her expression seemed quizzical. Had she expected me to walk in with someone? Of course she had, having jumped to the wrong conclusion about my Valentine's Day chocolate binge, while holding tight to my mother's card.

She held my gaze for another second, seemingly buoyed by my being there alone. Suddenly, she did something I couldn't have expected, but had dreamed of the night before. With the light from the window almost obscuring her in backlight, she turned slightly in her seat.

Sphinx-like, she smiled.


End file.
